Siblings
by comedymakestheworldturn
Summary: A terrible car accident shakes up the lives of John and Sherlock, seriously affecting both of their siblings, in a way that will test the strength of their friendship.
1. Chapter 1

A crash, and it was done.

"What's going on?" said Dr John H Watson, snapping through police tape without a second thought. Nothing would be in his way right now. "What the fuck is going on with my sister!"

It was utter carnage- twisted metal, and fire, emergency services crawling the scene. Assessing his surroundings, John took quick note of the accident- a sleek, glossy car, wrapped back around on itself, folded in half, almost. A lampost, crooked and bent from impact, lightbulb smashed, and the hatch dented out of it's place, leaving live wires all splayed and crushed. Other elements of the wrekage were registered, but barely so, for quite rightly, his vision fixed on two gurneys, laid out by the big double doors of an ambulance rear. One, John could see from here, was male, and all the paramedic attention was drawn around him, men and women frantically attempting to fit his body back into place, make it work right. Needles, frames, bandages were all in the process of being applied, and the general insanity of the work about this man was causing the eyeline of most spectators to be pulled in to that general direction. Johns eyes lingered over this petty scene for mere seconds. It was longer than the sight warranted, he knew, and he also knew that the only reason he watched over it for those few seconds, was because he was too afraid to look to the left, and take into account the load of the second gurney. With a frightened breath, he turned to the left. He saw nothing other than what he expected.

A body lay on the second, that he could see for certain- a bodybag already zipped over the shattered frame of what had once been a human life. What brought him forward, he could not say, for it was already agonisingly clear to him what lay underneath the black plastic. He knew he didn't want to see it- it could only bring him pain, but somehow, his brain could not stop his feet from beating the pavement in a quickening, businesslike pace, that drew him ever closer to his greatest fears. Reaching out, to touch the zip, he faltered, hands shaking. He did not falter for long. In one, quick and fluid movement, he drew back the bag, and gaped at the face within. A red hot pang twisted across his heart.

There, still and cold, was the bruised, broken face of Harry Watson. Her features, while shot through with black and blue, were free from blood, unblemished by death. They were, undoubtably, destroyed, but that somehow made her no less beautiful. Her ginger hair was knotted and ragged, yet John caressed it with a gentle touch, as you would use if were you holding a baby bird, still new to this world. Taking in this last image of his sister, he moved to her eyes. Green and bright, as they always were, but their sparkle gone, they now lay glassy, and unseeing, as a doll.

A paramedic suddenly swatted away his hand, ripping the zip to a close, with clinical speed. "Leave it alone!" the ignorant man said, pushing the words through cruel, tight lips.

"IT." said John. " YOU JUST CALLED MY SISTER IT!" At that, he lost his cool, swiping at the paramedic in agony and fury, "YOU FUCKING PARASITE! SHE WAS MY SISTER-YOU NEVER KNEW HER! YOU CAN'T HAVE HER, LEAVE HER ALONE! **LEAVE HER ALONE!**" His cries, ragged and animal, were violent and broken, enough to break the heart of the great Moriaty himself. He clawed at the sack that sealed his lost sister, clutching it so tight he probably bruised her cold skin even further. Nothing would tear him away from Harry, nothing!

The paramedic was apologetic now, speaking in a fast, soft monotone, the words of which he could not care to understand. He could only pick up the odd word-... ... crash, causes unknown... drivers condition critical... alchohol poisoning... dead already...didn't suffer... nothing we could do.

nothing we could do.

nothing...

Head spinning...blue lights flashing incircles round hishead... where did thisblanket come from?...WHAT?

And that's when Dr John Watson passed out.

In the Mortuary of Bart's, was where John awoke. He still clutched at the black bag that was his sisters tomb, and unable to comprehend what was really going on, he settled for slumping on the floor, grabbing tightly the hand of poor, broken Harry. They wouldn't put her in those drawers, he decided. That wasn't for her. So he held on tight until a familiar face brought him comfort, and sanity. "John." came Sherlock's voice, a calm and warming lullaby to John's tired and fuzzy brain. "It's okay. You don't need to be the brave one. Not now." Sherlock simply sat there, in a silence that to John, was blatantly nicotine assisted, but for once, it wasn't an issue. John slumped to the side a little, letting his head rest in Sherlock's scarf, and he simply sat there too. Nothing needed to be said- in fact, John was quite certain to be incapable of speech in his current mental state. He let his mind wander instead.

Harry. Harry was dead.

That concept was hard to fathom. Harry had always been... well she had certainly not always been **there**, but to put it more accuratley, she had always been. Harry was a constant- John's rock in the storm. Whatever John was going through, Harry would still be doing much the same as ever- still in some rocky relationship or another, still drunk, still with the same flaws, that John could pretend to fix. Harry had always **been**, and John thought she always would **be**.

And now she wasn't.

John was drifting. Drifiting on a sea without an anchor.

_Time passes. Neither man knows how much_

John leant on Sherlock for a long while. They didn't know how long they stayed there for, but John noticed Sherlocks head flopping to the side a little, which meant perhaps he'd fallen asleep breifley. John wouldn't have been suprised if he'd dropped off at some point too. People came in a few times, but the two men, so quiet and still in each others comfort, were un-noticable.

Until now.

Molly Hooper came running in, at a speed non-befitting of her outrageous heels, her hair more than a little untidy, and her lipstick beggining to crack a small amouunt, around the edges,showing that in reality, her lips were a lot less full than she had drawn them on this morning. Or this afternoon. Or this evening. Or whenever the fuck this was. Sherlock and John were blissfully ignorant of time- it is never a good idea to know how long you've been in pain for, as it leads you only to spend every waking second looking at the clock, and begging it to make the pain go quicker.

"Oh, Sherlock- thank goodness it's you! We've been looking for hours..."

"Molly! Can't you see this is NOT a good time!" Sherlock snapped, whipping his head round to face her. "John has just suffered a HUGE loss, and I just HAPPEN to be doing a very good job of being there for him! Scotland yard can piss off!"

"But it'-"

" No, Molly. What could POSSIBLY be so important as to make me abandon John now. Not even MORIATY could make me leave!"

"SHERLOCK!" Yelled Molly. "It's not a case- it, it's about the driver!"

" WHAT about the driver! Was he murdered, was he drunk, was he dead, was he in love, was he alone, was he gay, was he straight, was he married, was he single was he rich, was he famous! He could be any of those things- can't you see? I DON'T GIVE A CRAP!"

"Sherlock- no. It's... it's...

Mycroft. John had seen it coming before Molly said the words. Sherlock, despite all his genius, hadn't. It had all happened rather quickly after that. Sherlock had stood up, businesslike, and swift, and marched out of the room. John had stayed behind, not wanting to leave his sister, but he stood up after a while, and giving her hand a final squeeze, he left her in persuit of his freind, who, it elaborated, had had no idea where he was going. Several long mintues of frantic searching by the whole hospital staff, lead John to finding him on a chair in the altzheimers ward by a long, tall window, having gone slightly feotal, rocking gently. He was clearly freaking out, in his own special way.

For some reason, that John couldn't quite identify, he was afraid. The idea of Sherlock, this one man who was always so strong, and uncaring, being helplessly afraid was something he wasn't sure if he could take right now. With each step, his feet were shaking, and with each step, his resolve weakened. Facing up to the man who, in John's head should've been the same way he'd always seemed - bulletproof, was something that just shouldn't have to happen.

He'd only just lost his anchor. Now the only thing remaining in his world that he could be sure of was falling apart before his very eyes.

It was the hardest thing John Watson had ever had ever had to do.

So he didn't do it.

For the first time in his life, John Watson turned on his heel, and ran.


	2. Chapter 2

The rain rained on John Watson. He didn't care. The water soaked through his jacket, and through his skin, and through his heart, and into his very soul. He did not care. Being cold and wet was nothing that he didn't deserve. He had seen war, and famine, and pain, and yet nothing quite compared to the gut wrenching realisation that he had abandoned his closest freind. And after all the effort that Sherlock had invested into being there for him- he'd just abandoned the poor man.

By the time he'd made it to the end of the road, tears were clouding his vision to the extent that everything was just one big blur, blotted with the colours of traffic lights, and passing cars. Turning the corner, it was all John could do to stagger into the corner and sink to his knees. It was not like him to cry. Curling up in a ball, and pulling his jacket over his head in a vague bid to fend off the rain. Not that it mattered, of course. Rain was rain was rain. Tiime would pass. Water would dry. Life would fade. Time would pass. Water would dry. Life would fade. Life does that. Life is fleeting, and pointless. Life is cruel. Life is shit. Life took Harry.

There is nothing quite like losing a sibling. We might fight, we might get mad, we might pretend to hate each other, but we never have anything quite like our siblings. People who do not have a sibling will probably never understand. There is nothing on the planet that irritates us more than our brothers and sisters, which is why it is such a shock when one is taken away. When Harry died, the colour faded. Life was a rich tapestry, overflowing with colour and splendour, and when Harry had gone, the threads had snapped- colour had been dropped from the loom, and now was gone forever too. Tears burst forth from John's tired, red eyes, and he grabbed onto his knees, rocking forward in his agony. He did not sob- for he never forgot himself, never through all the pain, was even one molecule of him no longer John. Every particle of him was absolutley John, it was merely that the particles no longer held together. He was drifting- everything was drifting, and only one tiny thought held him to the spot he was on.

SHERLOCK

The thought did not stop the pain, nor did it lessen it by any means. He just had the thought, and that was enough. He was drifting, but he wouldn't drift too far. Because there was Sherlock.

Time would pass.

Water would dry.

Life would fade.

Life does that.

Life is fleeting, and pointless.

Life is cruel.

Life is shit.

Life took Harry.

Harry was gone. But the world didn't care. People walked past John, and they didn't even glance! Why did the sun come up this morning? Why is that bloody Chris Moyles still presenting his radio show? Why are people still living? Why are people still talking? Why are people still laughing? Why is the world still spinning?

Why doesn't the world care that Harry's gone!

_Because Harry didn't matter._

It was such a cruel thing to think, but John knew it was true. Nobody mattered to the world. The world doesn't care who lives or dies. That's why we find people who care about us, people who we matter to. Because if we matter to anybody, then we matter a little. And a little is a damnsight closer to a lot than you might think.

Sherlock made John matter.

John needed to show Sherlock that he made him matter too.

So he sealed off the wound in his heart, and went to make a man matter.

"Here." said John. "I got you some coffee..." He placed the take-out, cardboard, coffee cup on the arm of Sherlock's chair. The consulting detective looked up at John, his shallow, yet oddly mesmerising eyes unfocused on the doctor's face.

" How kind of you" he said- in a manner that suggested that he was not quite all there, only speaking to aknowledge English plesantries. "Where did you get the money? You don't have your wallet."

"I'm not even going to ask how you know that. Some woman gave it to me on the street- thought I was a homeless guy."

"Well why did she think that?" Sherlock said, appearing suddenly to click back into reality,

"Because... because I was having a bit of a breakdown on the corner, okay? Look, it doesn't matter. The point is, I'm here for you. You were here for me, so now I'm here for you. C'mon, let's go and see your brother. I know he needs you."

"No" Said Sherlock, curtly.

John was literally speechless. He just stood there, gaping. It took him a while to remember to function.

"How? How can you not want to see your sibling at a time like this?"

"We've never been close. I don't see why you expect me to care so much, really. I don't need you to be here for me. The coffee's nice though." He said, with a smirk.

John found rage building up insade of him- like a great flood through his body. Sherlock seemed genuinley not to care- a suggestion utterly inconceivable to John. How could you be fine, how could you not care, when your sibling was lying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life? It was something a man as good and kind as John, simply could not comprehend. And to reject his help, after all the effot he'd invested in getting up off that street corner- that was something that cut him deep.

Looking at Sherlocks eyes, he was no longer mesmerised. There was nothing but cold, shallow, clinical grey in those eyes, and when they met each others, he could feel the tears welling up within his own.

He spoke two sentences. They were short and simple, but his voice still quavered in the middle.

"I knew you weren't perfect, Sherlock. But I never had you down as heartless."

Then he drew back his arm, and punched the man square in the face, hard as he could. Then he left. He did not look back.

But if he had.

He would have seen, for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes break down, and cry.


	3. Chapter 3

Oddly enough, the pain was not painful. Oh, by all means, he could feel it- an intense throbbing through his forehead and the bridge of his nose. He could feel it redden, and a fair amount of blood was trickling down his filtrum, mingling with his tears in a cocktail of anguished sorrow. He knew the pain was there- he simply did not feel it. Why? Because the pain in his heart could thrust any amount of physical pain into insignificance without batting an eyelid. It was pain, pain like he had never known, that brought him to tears. People had hated him. People had hit him. People had left him.

But not John.

John had been tolerant, and good- the most faithful friend Sherlock ever had, so kind and accepting. It hurt to hurt him. It hurt to know, that now he might have lost the doctor for good, and it hurt to know that he might never again hear the man marvel at Sherlock's smallest victories, never see him analyse a scene, never again notice the worry line that presented itself in his forehead when he was trying his best to impress with his limited deductions. How sweet the man...

Sherlock, being a sociopath, had never known emotional hurt. He'd never lost a friend, mourned for death, lusted after a partner, grown apart from a relative. Suddenly, all these emotional circumstances had presented themselves, and he was coping with an entire lifetimes worth of empathy, sorrow, hurt, rejection and loss. Emotional pain was entirely knew to him, and he struggled to put it into words. Instead, all he could do was compare the hurt to physical experiences he knew.

John's sister dying was probably about equivalent to climbing up a staircase, at night, and assuming that there was one more step than reality provided. That one sickening second when your foot falls through the empty space where the step should be- that shocked sinking feeling, of having your heart ride up just an inch higher in your chest than it should be- that was Harry dying exactly.

Watching John suffer- now that was equivalent to a slow stomach ache, he reckoned. It was like a steadily increasing feeling of an ache, building up, so as to become intolerable, coupled with the frustration of being unable to truly rectify the situation plucking at your heart. Like a stomache ache, though- the pain could be ignored if a suitable distraction presented itself. Simply staring out the window at a passing bird, for a while, could be enough to relieve you from your pain for a short time.

Mycroft's suffering- now that pain was like an old sporting injury, assumed to have healed, returning to cripple you again. Sherlock did not expect the pain he felt when Mycroft had fallen into danger, but once it was there, it was nothing less than he expected- pure torture, like nothing experienced before, yet somehow oddly familiar. It was a surprise pain, yes, but that did not make it any less painful, and the sickening horror of it was something he could only liken to an athelete finding that an old back issue had struck them down in agony, just seconds before an olympic match- scary, heartbreaking, and infuriatingly frustrating.

And the hate and hurt that John had mere seconds previously showered Sherlock with...well... that was like being stepped on by an elephant, submerged in corrosive acid, having all his hair wrenched out at once, stepping into a meat grinder, dropping his armchair onto his shin, the sting in his eyes when walking through a field of burning hay, falling down the stairs, jumping out of a third floor window, having his heart slowly pressed into mush by a vice, pouring bleach into an open wound, drilling into his skull, a brain tumor pressing against the inside of his forhead, being laid out on razor mesh and having a tonne of pressure applied to his chest, and that time that he had accidentally seared off all his cuticles during an experiment.

There was no other way to describe it, really.

What hurt worse, was that he knew that he could never make things right. Not without making them wronger, first.

He wanted to see his brother- of course he did. There was nothing he wanted more on this earth, except perhaps for John's forgiveness. The problem was, he was scared. It was not an easy thing for him to admit, but Sherlcok Holmes was scared out of his mind. The thought of seeing his brother lying there, so still, and lifeless, was one that chilled him to the bone. He was scared to see his brother, because, deep down, he was still in denail.

When he saw Mycroft, broken and bruised- that would be the moment this became real. It still felt like nothing but a dream, to Sherlock. He wanted it to stay that way forever- he didn't want it to be real. And he was really, really frightened of finding out that it was.

John was afraid too. Sherlock could see it in his eyes- he was afraid. His very world was lying in shards around him, and he didn't have anything to rely on, because he relied on consistencey. Sherlock knew that Harry had been John's constant, and his anchor- and though he was too proud to admit it, he felt lost, and alone. Sherlock was feeling lost and alone too, but it was not his pride that kept him from seeking John's help, it was his reputation.

Despite best efforts on Sherlock's part, John still saw him in the same way- as some form of hero. Bulletproof. To shatter this now would be betrayal. In Sherlock's mind, John was like a kitten- strong willed and good natured, but also deeply fragile, and somewhat stupid. Much as he might hope to believe that he was capable of being there for Sherlock, he was set on simple principles as a foundation for all he did, and were the Consultant detective to demonstrate any weaknesses now, that would shake these foundtions, and in John's, current, fragile state, that tremor could be all it took to break him.

No matter how much he hurt- it didn't matter.

The salt water ran down Sherlock's world weary cheeks, streaking interminabley down features set in lonesome agony.

They ran into his mouth.

The taste of hearbreak was bitter and salty.

It didn't matter how much it hurt.

John's pain was his pain.

But his pain would never need to be John's pain.

Never.

Sherlock gave a a light sigh, prised himself from his chair in the alzeimers ward, and began to walk. He wasn't sure quite where he was going. The tears had dried, but only in a physical sense- the agony was still very much acute. Every step he took felt like a dream, in some way unreal, like he was floating. Gentle dizziness rocked his skeletal frame, every step he took pulsating through his brain with a reverberating echo, that made the idea of an out of body experience not entirley out of question. He certainly wouldn't have been surprised to look down and see his own body face down on the floor. He would not fall, though. Falling was simply the failure to be proficient in walking, and since we have all been walking since we were tiny, there is no excuse for not being proficient in such a basic task.

Light headed and woozy, he gently placed his foot on the first step, before applying weight and moving forward and down. Walking down the stairs was a slow, mechanical process, and he took great joy in finding a task that could be completed with simplicity and ease- a kind rock in the storm of the confusion engulfing his life. He always found hospitals overly maze like, and confusing, a fact which irritated him as he wound his way through various wards and corridors. He couldn't deny that he was terrified of running into John, or his brother, or, more than likely, both. Turning left through a ward for concussions, and various other cranal injuries, though, he found a sight that was infinitley worse than either.

In a hospital bed, a bandage round her head, sat a tall and pretty teen- mousey hair hanging down to just below her shoulders. She was smiling euphorically, clearly unphased by her injury, or just pleased to have recovered to the extent that she had. Which it was, he couldn't tell, at a glance. At her bedside was a teenaged boy, whose appearence he didn't note, as he was so focused on the interaction between the two young adults. Just friends, he could see, but their friendship appeared effortless, like breathing, easy as air.

"Glad you're good, Poppy." He said, with a gentle smile.

At those words, everything seemed to hang a little. Soft jolts of electric atmosphere jumped in the motionless space between them. Everything went soft, and simple, and the moment that these two shared was one in which he could tell that they both felt perfectly, inexpressably happy- the sheer joy and releif that they were experiencing building up inside, pressure mounting, pressure that could never truly be released out into the world, but would dissapate slowly, spreading through every vessell of their bodies, and heading into their minds, and their hearts, sealing itself away, as something that they would never truly forget.

"Glad you came, Owen." Were her words of reply. She held him in a soft embrace, and they went back to the idle chit-chat with which they had previously occupied themselves.

This was not fair.

How can it be fair?

There, right before his eyes, he saw two people who had it good- everyone would be fine, lives unscathed, freindships held firm, and it made him suddenly furious.

Tears burst out from ducts that by all rights should be parched beyond beleif, fists balled in rage, and a cry built up within the man that he would never normally consider himself capable of.

" WHY CAN'T **I** BE HAPPY! WHY AREN'T I ALLOWED?"

He grabbed something from a nearby supply trolley, what, he did not wait to identify, and thrust it at the pair, hard as he could.

Not wanting to see a reaction, he tore out of the door, down the stairs, and away out of the building, into the street, before anybody could see.

Somebody did see, though.

John Watson pulled on his jacket, and followed his friend, out of the hospital, and into the rain.


	4. Chapter 4

The door was slammed shut solidly, roughly enough to shake the walls of 221b Baker Street, in a way that, were Mrs Hudson present, would probably cause complaint. The phone was unplugged in a hurry, computers shut down, and finally, Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocket, drew back a long, pale arm, and thrust it through the window, smashing the glass, and sending it flying down into the street, where upon it's landing, it was crushed by a passing taxicab (this being London, it was, of course, inevitable, that a taxicab would be the nearest vehicle). Every window was then locked, and he grabbed the Union Jack pillow from the armchair, and rammed it through the hole made by his phone.

Satisfied that the whole world was shut out, Sherlock sank into the sofa, and with a sigh, he let the tears flow. And boy, did they flow. He felt no need to hold back now, here in his bubble, nobody would find him, nobody would need to see this. Curling into a ball, gripping his knees, his knuckles white, he let out a wail of anguish, that tore through him, ripping at the walls of his throat until they were raw, and he tasted blood in his mouth. Face tense, eyebrows sloping down, with his mouth open and twisted in pain, squinting from the tears raining endlessley down his face- Sherlock knew that his features were set in a grotesque picture of anguish and agony. Sobs rocking through him sent his body into violent convulsions, and a cold, shivering, wreck was all that the consultant detective was reduced to.

Somewhere, through the agony, Sherlock heard a knock.

This was only to be expected. People were stupid- they weren't idiots. He ignored it, pointedly, and went back to his crying.

The knock was persistent- it's provider now opened the letterbox, clumsily and loudly, in order to shout to the sufferer within. It was irritating, yes, but it was of no significance. It could still be ignored.

"Sherlock- give it up. I know you're in there!"

Oh.

That did change things. It was not just any voice shouting through the letterbox. It was John's voice.

"John- I told you- I don't need you! Go away, I am fine on my own!"

"Sherlock-"  
>"I said AWAY, John."<p>

That dealt with things nicely. Silence.

"Sherlock!"

Or not.

"WHAT, John!"

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

" Don't play dumb with me, Sherlock. You can't play that card when you're an arrogant, self confessed genius. Why are you doing this?"

"I'm not."

" Look, Sherlock... You're scared. I know that. I can deal with that. It's fine. You were there for me, I want to be there for you too, and I can help you, but only if you let me. Maybe you think that you don't care about your Brother. You can kid yourself, but you can't kid me. Sooner or later, you're going to get that red hot pang, twisting across your heart- just like I did, and I know you're going to want somebody there when you do. I know it.

Now, I don't know why it is you're trying so hard to run from this, but there's obviously a problem, and whatever it is, I can help make it go away. But you have to tell me what it is. Why are you sealing yourself off like this? Why don't you want the world to see you?"

Sherlock thought about this for a while.

"I- I don't know!" He said. That was lie. Of course he knew.

He was doing it because, maybe, just maybe, if the world couldn't reach him, Mycroft couldn't die.

If nobody could tell him, if nobody could make him hear- if he never knew- then Mycroft would never be dead. When somebody dies, they don't die only once. They die every time that somebody finds out that they die. Every time that a friend or a relative or an enemy or a rival finds out- that person dies a little bit more, until, eventually, they die altogether.

If Sherlock never knew, then he could just sit here, and stay here, looking at the door, and waiting for Mycroft to come home.

If Sherlock never knew, then the hope would always remain. Mycroft could always come home.

Of course Shelock knew that- he was just glad that John didn't.

"Come on, Sherlock." Said John. "Let's go and find Mycroft already."

And this time, Sherlock knew what to say.

"Okay, John." He said.


	5. Chapter 5

Finding Mycroft was tough. Not that he was hard to find, but more that it was deeply distressing and emotionally, crippling.

John was not sure quite why Sherlock's reaction had surprised him so much. Perhaps deep down he had still believed that Sherlock didn't care. Perhaps he had just expected the man to have a little more emotional control. He didn't know what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't what happened.

The two men turned the corner into the ICU, and Sherlock whimpered a little. John took this to mean that his friend was afraid, so he took his hand, and squeezed it a little. Mycrofts bed was plain, and unassuming- no cards, no gifts, no family, and if John had not already visited, he would probably have overlooked the plain and pale man who lay within it. He took a step towards Mycroft, shaking a little himself, if only for fear what this experience could to to his companion, and Sherlock let go of his hand, letting his arm flop down at his side. More than a little surprised, John whipped around to look at Sherlock, and the image he looked upon was one that would be seared into his mind forever and always.

Sherlock had crumpled. He simply crumpled. He folded down to the floor, sinking with great speed, like a man shot, or stabbed. On all fours, his hands tightened into fists, and tears balled and fell, rolling from his twisted cheeks. He couldn't do this... how could he do this? Watching his only brother wither and fade before his very eyes was something he never expected to have to do. In fact, he had warned Mycroft of exactly the opposite happening. He had always thought that it would be him lying in that bed, wires and tubes all hooked up, wisping away into nothing with his brother holding his hand. It wasn't a nice role reversal- he'd much rather be in the bed than here. He felt his face tighten, and his mouth bent in a silent wail, that nobody could hear, but nobody who saw it could ever forget. John could see, and Sherlock could feel, that this was the red hot pang. Like a burning hand twisting around his heart, squeezing it like a vice, furious angseity sucking at his chest, pulling his heart to the floor, like a sudden shock, only a thousand times worse. Such agony surely could not be sustained by a human body, not without damaging it beyond repair. Screams that he couldn't seem to form, rocked through his body, and there was nothing he could do, nothing that could stop this exshausting pain.

John watched the pain. He watched the anguish, and he watched the suffering that his best and only friend was put through. It was sickening. It hurt him far beyond what he had expected, and scared him more than he could ever have belived.

What made it worse was that John could only imagine tht this was what it had been like for Sherlock when he'd found Harry. Sherlock had been such a wonderful friend, so comforting and kind, had John had just left the man to ride through this storm alone- to bottle up his pain and store it away, and let his brain deal with it in smaller peices later, making him miserable for far longer than nessecary. He sat in his misery, guilty beyond belief, but he still found himself unable to pull himself up and help a friend. This situation would no doubt bring up issues that Sherlock and Mycroft had, and knowing how much Sherlock hated talking about it, and knowing how upsetting the whole affair could become, that was a lake that he didn't really want to dredge right now. So he just sat there. Sat, and watched and thought.

Slowly, and gradually, Sherlock began to calm. His shoulders relaxed, his face settled, and John realised that he was asleep. John was unsurprised- what that man had gone through had been enough to make him pass out, when it happened to him. Looking down at the innocent and lonely man, he decided that if he couldn't be a good friend when he was truly needed, he would be a good friend when he wasn't.

Carefully, as gently as he could, he took Sherlock, lifted his pale frame, with considerably less effort than he had expected to be needed. He held him close, and it was a warm, comforting embrace. Sometimes, all you really need is a hug. Most of the time you're too afraid to admit it, though.

He placed Sherlock in the chair by Mycroft's bed, pushed it close, and went to fetch him a blanket. When he returned, the consultiing detective, so sweet and vunerable in his sumber, was slumped over his brother in sleep. One arm was touching Mycrofts hand, the other spread out across his chest. It was almost certainly just a result of a subconscious shift in his deep, deep sleep.

But had you seen if from just the right angle.

You might have called it a hug.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock awoke to find himself in a field, perhaps, or maybe a garden- he couldn't yet tell. All he really knew was that he was lying on his back, and he could feel grass scratching on the back of his neck. It is a common misconception, he considered, that grass was a soft, comfortable, and almost romantic surface to lie on. It wasn't. Grass was actually quite high on his things-to-avoid-waking-up-on-at-all-costs list, beaten only by the sea, and Sally Donovan.

Staring to the sky, and pondering for a while, Sherlock felt it was necessary to observe that he was dreaming.

Not many people can recognise a dream while they are having it. No matter what happens- however rediculous, or far fetched, nobody can tell that they are dreaming, while they are dreaming, with very few exceptions. Of course, Sherlock was one of these few- simply because he would not be decieved by anything, not even his own mind. To let the subconscious dictate what is real and what is not is the definition of insanity.

Sometimes dreams were difficult to identify- if they were mundane, and sometimes, they were easy to spot- it all depended on location and situation. This dream was subtle at a glance, but as soon as Sherlock began to properly process the surroundings, it became painfully obvious that this was not, nor would it ever be, reality.

The initial signs- the small, barely noticable ones, were in the sheer perfection of what surrounded him. The sky was a hazy and gentle, fuzzy yellow- spreading soft light over the scene. A tree, with big, twisting branched rose above into his eyeline, finding that the leaves were a shade of green, so exactly _right_, that it couldn't possibly be real- birds were never so free, never so happy in reality, and nothing was ever quite this exact.

The world was not how it should be. This was. Conclusion- this was not the world.

This judgement, formed and polished in mere seconds, would have been impressive, were it not for the fact they would have been deemed totally unecessary by the rather telling fact that upon looking down, Sherlock found that he had the body of a five year old. Shocked, and a little scared, he threw a hand to his tiny lips- gently brushing across them, terrified by the small proportions, but finding that there was no difficulty to be found in maneuvering his fingers. As he carefully lowered his arm, he found tiny, tight black curls running through them. Another glance downwards, and he could see a dark, soft duffle coat- fastened up to his neck, despite the heat, and a little, knitted red scarf, well worn, and easily recognised. It was clear to see now, that this was not just any body, it was HIS body. Just a little younger.

Placing his palms on the floor in front of him, he stood himself up in the way only a five year old can- relying heavily on his hands, lifting his legs, and gradually walking them up towards his stubby little arms, leaving his bottom in the air. It was undignified, yes, but the only way he could stand in this five year old form. He wobbled, staggering a little, like he'd just woken from a deep and lengthy sleep. He rubbed his eyes with slight, balled up fists- surprised at how small his eyelids were, and surprised to imagine how tiny his irises must be. Still unstable, a fluffy blank spots appearing across his vision, he suddenly keeled over backwards, and he could feel the impending thud of whatever rock, or paving slab, or flowerpot would be certain to present itself beneath his head. He flinched in preparation, desperatley scared, but the impact did not come. He found himself in arms- firm and rough at first, and shot through with anxiety, clearly fearing that they would not manage to hold little Sherlock, but they soon softened, gently pulling him in closer. He felt perfectly safe now, and the warmth of the arms around him could quite easily be described as the most beautiful feeling in the universe. Suddenly the arms scooped him up, swept him from his feet, lifting him into the air and spinning him around, and around, and it was like he was flying. The orange light, and the scratchy grass, and the perfect tree, and the free birds, all blurred into a big, sparkling mess of golden glow, and shiny light. He could feel the blood rushing to his head, and dizziness was beginning to seep into his consciousness- everything was fuzzy and nothing was clear, and he didn't care. It was magic.

All too soon, the moment was over. He was lowered from his flight, and he was pulled in close to a warm chest, before he was pulled up eye to eye with the owner of the arms. The face was something he recognised, something that rang a bell- an old, ancient, rusted bell. He knew the face, kind of, but the fact that it was taking him so long to remember meant that it was one that he had tried to forget.

Gently, the face closed in on him, and gently nuzzled his soft, childs cheeks, in a movement of tender love, and family affection. It was nice, but odd- a gesture so loving from anyone but John was something he had not felt since he was five..years... oh.

"I love you Sherly!"

Oh... Mycroft.

When Mycroft called him by that special little name, the one that only Mycroft could say, it all unravelled. The years of time spent apart that had clouded his vision wisped away, and here was his brother. The difference between his thirteen year old face, and the face that was lying lifeless in that hospital bed was irrelevant.

It was Mycroft, and it could be no-one else.

There were so many things to say- so many questions, so much love to show, all these things he should have said long ago. There was so much to say, but all that his, tiny, five year old lips could seem to muster, so clumsy and ineloquent in their speech, was "I love you, big brother."

Mycroft was startled at that. His shocked face was so unexpected that Sherlock was genuinley upset.

"Oh... I never knew you cared for me!" Mycroft stuttered.

This was unbelievable.

Had he really been so cold and loveless as a boy? Was it his fault that he and Mycroft had become so estranged? How heartbreaking to be here, shown all his mistakes, when it was so clearly too late to do a thing.

Ah, nothing could compare to the twisted cruelty of the human mind.

Suddenly, Mycroft smiled, a smile so warm it melted Sherlocks tiny fluttering heart. All he wanted to do was tell him everything. But he couldn't- it was so frustrating This tiny mind, this little heart, this child's body was not equipped to deal with such an enslaught of emotion, and the only way it was able to cope was by collapsing into a little ball of tears.

His long suffering older brother stroked the Sherlocks tight curls, and took him by the hand, carefully, yet still a little roughly, heaving the shaking five year old to his feet.

"C'mon, Sherly. Let's play!"

Swallowing his sobs, he held tightly to Mycroft's hand, and together, they toddled towards the perfect tree. The very idea of heading towards such a glorious sight seemed bad- it all felt so fragile, like touching it could be enough to make it shatter. Speeding up, and slowing down, and tripping regularly, while still maintaining an entirely objective intent- moving forward with good natured, but ill fated determination, in typical five year old form.

Making their wobbly way across the grass, they began to climb a hill- it was not a steep incline, although it gradually began to get more difficult to continue, and by the time they reached the top Mycroft had been forced to scoop Sherlock into his arms once again, his legs unable to cope. Over the peak of the hill, a lake came into view.

It took Sherlock's breath away- he inhaled in one, sharp gasp, unable to help himself. It was beautiful.

A shiny, smooth blue, except it wasn't blue- it was yellow. Such a perfect reflection on the sky, he had never seen, it was so perfect, in fact, that for one moment, he was utterly confused. He couldn't understand how the sky could have just doubled like that. There was nothing that could compare to this- SO beautiful, painfully lovely, and there really wasn't any concievable way to describe it. A glossy, soft reflection, perhaps a little fuzzy around the edges, but he could see it would probably never be noticed by another person. He wasn't even sure if his adult eyes could have noticed the little imperfections in the relection. It spead out over the horizon, with a thousand different shades of yellow, gold and orange, and a thousand shades that he couldn't even put a name to, each one used only in the single particle that they pigmented, coming together in a subtle picture of joy. It was something he had never seen before, and such perfection, he would never see again. A soft breeze drifted across the surface, and sent a light ripple through the lake. Sherlock found himself half expecting the sky to ripple too.

"What do you want to play, Sherly- sea, or sky?"

Sea, or sky- the lake or the tree.

Well, that was a simple decision- he could never bear to disturb that lake.

"Sky, big brother, sky!"

He could never quite get used to that- the words he meant to say coming out all muddled up, and not what he meant to say at all. Although, actually, he didn't mind so much. Sometimes the world made so much more sense in the words of a child.

So, together, they climbed. They climbed, and climbed, and they climbed. Sometimes, Sherlock would slip, but he was never scared. He knew that Mycroft would catch him. He would always cath him. Sometims, Sherlock would get stuck, but it didn't matter. He knew that Mycroft would never leave him behind. He would always help him up. Sometimes, Sherlock would get hurt, but he never cried. He knew that Mycroft would make it better. He would always make it better.

And, together, they reached the top.

And they sat there, for a while, and they didn't say a thing.

Sherlock sat there, and thought. He thought about what Mycroft was thinking, and he thought about how he could have been so intolerant of such a kind person. He could not understand how he could have been so intolerant at such a young age.

He looked at Mycroft for a while. Just looking. This was the first time he had ever looked up to his brother, really. Now that he thought about it, though, there was nobody more worthy of his admiration. Suddenly, and without any real grip on why he was doing so, he burst into tears. He was terrified.

"What's hurting you, Sherly? Why are you crying?"

"Be-be-because you're leaving, aren't you!"

Sherlock didn't really know why it was that he said it. It was all he could think to say.

Mycroft giggled, lightly.  
>"Yes, I am.." he said. "But why is that such a big problem?"<p>

"I love you, big brother. And... and I'm scared..."

Sherlock had forgotten how to think- he just had to talk. It was all he could think to do.

"Well... what are you so afraid of?" Mycorft said, softly, stroking his little brothers hair once again.

"The... the dark." Sherlock said, resolutley. "The dark."

"Then remember this, my dear brother." he said. "Darkness, is just another kind of light."

And with that, Mycroft faded.

He dissapated off, out into the golden sky, and the yellow light. Grains of gold, and grains of yellow, and grains of nothing much at all drifted out from his every surface, swirling, and twisting, shot through with jolts of pure light. They spun, and they danced, and they weaved into different shapes, and different forms, and then suddenly, and yet somehow not suddenly whatsover, he was gone. He was simply not there at all.

And then there was nothing there at all.

And Sherlock opened his eyes.

Hello! Yeah, it's me, being all authory, and leaving an author note! Right- first, I want to apologise for not getting any of this beta read before. The new bit has been, but the rest is still just as shit as it used to be... also, I am sorry it has been so long since I updated. I will never, never scrap this fic, but sometimes it takes a while for me to write stuff... I'm sorry, I know I'm an awful author! Thanks, as always, to the two people kind enough to leave reviews, and thank GOD that they are favourable. I have no idea how many people, if any. are reading this, but I am grateful if you are reading this. Thanks! (Also, finally got my arse in gear, and split this up into chunks,,, they are not ideal chapters, but they will do...)


	7. Chapter 7

John found it intriguing watching Sherlock and Mycroft.  
>The possesive way in which the consulting detective watched over his brother was astounding, espescially considering that before the accident, he hadn't shown even the slightest bit of concern, or affection towards his brother. The sudden burst of sheer adoration that Sherlock had developed over the course of a single night was something John struggled to come to terms with, never having expected Sherlock to show such dedication to anybody but him. He couldn't deny that the dogged determination and irrational love he was applying to Mycroft at the moment was nothing short of a miracle- the way in which he fussed over his brother's wellbeing- checking with the nurses before every test, giving him blankets, talking to him, hugging him and caring for him, despite the fact that he was most definitley unaware of the effort Sherlock showed, and much as John hated to admit it, almost certainly wouldn't live to be told of it either.<p>

John was no phsyciatrist, and certainly no Sherlock when it came to other people's emotions, but the way in which Sherlock was acting towards Mycroft seemed almost... apologetic... in fact, if John hadn't known any better, he might have thought that perhaps Sherlock was not doing this for Mycroft's benefit, but his own. Like, perhaps this was all to make up for something- the last grand gesture Sherlock could make to prove that he did in fact care for his brother, and show that for all those years cut off, all those years in which he tried to reject him, his big brother had never truly left his mind.

Whatever the reason, though, it was clear to see, there was something different in the way in which Sherlock looked at Mycroft- something in his eyes, something in his heart, something in his **soul** was a little different.  
>John just couldn't tell what.<p>

It was for fear of breaking this spell of affection, perhaps, that John hadn't spoken to Sherlock at all in the week since he first saw his brother. Beside a few basic questions about food, drink and accomadation, they had not spoken. But then, Sherlock hadn't spoken to anybody, really. He quizzed the nurses about procedures and tests, but that was all. The whispers to Mycroft were the only words the touched his lips which had any real meaning to them.

Therefore, it was with great trepidation that John approached Sherlock with some news- news that the nurses had decided ought to be delivered by a friend.

"Sherlock." Said John, with heavy heart and mind, "You know that your brother is in an unresponsive coma... well... he has severe tissue damages to his vital organs, and his heart is failing fast."

John paused for a while, assessing Sherlocks face.

And Sherlock just sat there- unmoving, unblinking, mouth slighty ajar, with the hint of a tear in his eye.

John opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, struggling to find the right words to continue.

"You see... he is never going to get off life support unless... unless he has a heart transplant. And because of the damage to his other organs... it's going to be very dangerous. They're going to transfer him to a specialist unit in Wales to give him the best shot at survival, but... but..."

"But. What." Sherlock's two words were spat out through gritted teeth, icy and harsh, and John could tell the man was fighting back a heavy onslaught of tears.

"Well... I'm afraid there's... well, there's a nintey two percent chance Mycroft will die, Sherlock.  
>I'm sorry."<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

From then on Sherlock just floated through life.

He had little to no recollection of the journey to Wales.

He didn't know how long it had taken, he hadn't know who was there, he hadn't known how they got there. There was only one thing that mattered to him.

Mycroft.

He sat in a medative silence for the whole time. He sat still and utterly unmoving, and he concentrated on nothing but his older brother.

It was odd. At first, all Sherlock could feel was his own heartbeat... but then... well, it doubled.

Suddenly, when all of his mind became totally focused, on a single figure, a single life, his heartbeat doubled.

And he knew, instinctivley, that this second heart he now possessed belonged to Mycroft.

Their heartbeats were one- twisted, entwined, and Sherlock knew that if Mycroft were to die, no matter how far apart the two brothers were, he would feel it. He would absolutley feel it.

This was the only significant event of the journey, and the most recent memory he had, before the present situation.

Mycroft was in surgery.

Sherlock was pacing anxiously, listening to the sound of his two heartbeats.

Thud. _Thud._

Mycroft had a 92% chance of death.

Thud. _Thud._

That meant an 8% chance of survival.

Thud. _Thud._

Sherlock wasn't a lucky man.

Thud. _Thud._

All he had done, his entire life, was make the best of the shit thrown at him.

Thud. _Thud._

Sherlock had never attributed even a single occurance in his life to luck.

Thud. _Thud._

Every acheivement he had ever made, he had worked hard to attain.

Thud. _Thud._

92% chance he dies.

Thud. _Thud._

8% chance he lives.

Thud. _Thud._

No luck. No good fortune.

Thud. _Thud._

Sherlock could only draw one conclusion.

Thud. _Thud._

Mycroft would die.

Thud.

That was when Sherlock left.


	9. Chapter 9

The sea spread out to the horizon- a vast expanse, deep and inky and beautiful.

Lights from the city far over by the harbour were reflected in the choppy sea, distorted, spliced and shaken up, and yet somehow exactly how they should be. The moon hung low in the sky, a silvery orb of unattainable glory, sat in a velvet blanket of deep rich blue, peppered with sharp white glares of splendour that constituted stars.

When John Watson approached the scene, he could not help but be momenterialy stunned by it's ... by it's staggering.. well, for want of a better term, _rightness_.

There was an air of such calming finality about the sea. It had been there for many hundreds of thousands of years before John and Sherlock came along, throwing about all their problems, and it would continue to be there long after their bones were nothing but sand, their sorrows dissapated out in the wind, and gone with the passing tide.

"Don't worry," the sea seemed to say. "It doesn't matter. People have always had issues, and I carry them all. Someday, I will carry yours too."

It was comforting. Tears once again crept down John's face, as he realised that life really never would be the same again.

Without Harry, it all seemed so empty... such a loss he had never suffered before, and he simply couldn't cope any more.

He needed to end this pain.

Now.

So caught up in his reflections was John, that it took him several minutes to realise that Sherlock was already waist deep in the water.

He knew that he should have been running, but he wasn't.

His steps were soft and gentle, leaving light marks in the sand where he trod, and though he knew he should stay out of the water, he didn't.

The water was freezing, he knew. Well, it should have been, but John felt no change, merely a comforting touch of fluid against fabric.

He called out to Sherlock, and Sherlock waited.

John waded out, out up to his chest, and when he reached Sherlock, Sherlock held him like an infant, and pulled him to deeper water.

"Do you really want to do this, John?" Said the tall, dark man.

John smiled. Of course Sherlock knew what he was thinking. He always knew.

"I know you want it too, Sherlock."

They both knew that John was right. Neither man could survive without their sibling.

"Mycrof-" John began, but Sherlock silenced him with a single scentence.

"He's not there anymore. He's here."

"They're here." The two men said together.

The truth in their words was absolute.

And together, they plunged, deeper and deeper into icy depths, the water rushing over their heads, into their hearts, filling their souls.


	10. Chapter 10

The sea spread out to the horizon- a vast expanse, deep and inky and beautiful.

Lights from the city far over by the harbour were reflected in the choppy sea, distorted, spliced and shaken up, and yet somehow exactly how they should be. The moon hung low in the sky, a silvery orb of unattainable glory, sat in a velvet blanket of deep rich blue, peppered with sharp white glares of splendour that constituted stars.

When John Watson approached the scene, he could not help but be momenterialy stunned by it's ... by it's staggering.. well, for want of a better term, _rightness_.

There was an air of such calming finality about the sea. It had been there for many hundreds of thousands of years before John and Sherlock came along, throwing about all their problems, and it would continue to be there long after their bones were nothing but sand, their sorrows dissapated out in the wind, and gone with the passing tide.

"Don't worry," the sea seemed to say. "It doesn't matter. People have always had issues, and I carry them all. Someday, I will carry yours too."

It was comforting. Tears once again crept down John's face, as he realised that life really never would be the same again.

Without Harry, it all seemed so empty... such a loss he had never suffered before, and he simply couldn't cope any more.

He needed to end this pain.

Now.

So caught up in his reflections was John, that it took him several minutes to realise that Sherlock was already waist deep in the water.

He knew that he should have been running, but he wasn't.

His steps were soft and gentle, leaving light marks in the sand where he trod, and though he knew he should stay out of the water, he didn't.

The water was freezing, he knew. Well, it should have been, but John felt no change, merely a comforting touch of fluid against fabric.

He called out to Sherlock, and Sherlock waited.

John waded out, out up to his chest, and when he reached Sherlock, Sherlock held him like an infant, and pulled him to deeper water.

"Do you really want to do this, John?" Said the tall, dark man.

John smiled. Of course Sherlock knew what he was thinking. He always knew.

"I know you want it too, Sherlock."

They both knew that John was right. Neither man could survive without their sibling.

"Mycrof-" John began, but Sherlock silenced him with a single scentence.

"He's not there anymore. He's here."

"They're here." The two men said together.

The truth in their words was absolute.

And together, they plunged, deeper and deeper into icy depths, the water rushing over their heads, into their hearts, filling their souls.


	11. Chapter 11

And then there was nothing.

Only darkness.

Or was it light?


End file.
